


Water Runs Thin

by imaginefishes



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst, Bending (Avatar), Brotherly Angst, Brothers, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Corruption, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deviates From Canon, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Heroes to Villains, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Bending Ability, Physical Abuse, Politics, Psychological Trauma, Sad, Trans Male Character, Trans Tarrlok (Avatar), Transphobia, Trauma, Verbal Abuse, Villains, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28833978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginefishes/pseuds/imaginefishes
Summary: A re-telling of Tarrlok’s story from a trans perspective.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Water Runs Thin

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2 years on AO3 to me woo! Anyway this fic is kinda dark, I'm not even sure if I've managed to tag it all but the general TWs are in place. Just in case you missed out, this work includes multiple forms of child abuse and trauma, as well as implied forced prostitution, and kind-of-not-really graphic depictions of wounds. Again, I might have missed something in this preface, so please read at your own discretion. Here's the accompanying playlist for the story: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/62RyxfrNQR6AOigX2y4BzN

## Act I: Superego

“Noatak, get outside. We’re waterbending tonight,” Yakone said, the corners of his lips curving up into a smirk. He paced around the room, grabbing the equipment they’d need to weather the night at random and tossing them into his bags.

His child watched him, trying to swallow the lump in his throat as he trotted up to him. He hesitated, dragging out his words as he tugged at his father’s tunic with wide eyes. “Dad…? Can I come with you?”

Yakone paused, grip tightening on the sealskin tent in his hands. His features hardened, eyebrows furrowed when he looked down at the child. “Tullik? No, I have nothing to teach you. Go be with your mother,” he replied, returning to packing his bags.

Tullik pouted, whining. “But dad—”

Yakone interrupted him, his voice bellowing across the room, enough to shake his grip from his tunic. “Enough is enough, Tullik! How many times do I have to tell you that girls aren’t allowed to learn combat bending? You can’t even perform healing properly, you—!” He lifted his arm, ready to backhand his child, but he caught himself and paused, lowering the hand as he took a few deep breaths.

“Just—just go be with your mother, alright, Tullik?” he sighed, picking up his bags and briskly exiting the hut.

The child whimpered, lips trembling as he considered calling out after his father, but he remained silent. His shoulders sagged, and though he tried hard to fight the tears welling up in his eyes, a warm flush spread across his face all the same.

Noatak walked over, having just packed his own bags as well. He offered him a sad smile, extending a hand to clasp his shoulder and rubbing his thumb over that spot in small circles. He let his hand rest there, reaching his other hand out to smooth the child’s hair, but a muffled shout from outside their house pulled them out of the moment.

“I’m sorry,” He mouthed, throwing an apologetic look at the child as he withdrew his arms, jogging out the door, bag haphazardly slung over his shoulder.

The child’s mother now appeared from out of the kitchen, having been washing the dishes from dinner. She walked over, enveloping the child in her embrace. She kneeled down to plant a kiss on his cheek, but Tullik looked away, the first of many hot tears beginning to slide down his face.

He folded his arms over his mother’s back. “Why doesn’t daddy love me?” He murmured into her hair.

His mother pulled back, stroking his cheek with her hand. “Oh, sweetheart, he does love you. He sees potential in you, sweetie. He wants you to stay focused on your healing so you can become one of the best in the world, hmm? Her voice was tender, a stark contrast to the volatile tone his father had taken on earlier. “Now come on, hold your tears, hmm?” She cooed, wiping away the warm liquid on the child’s cheeks.

He lay in his mother’s lap for the rest of the night, mind whirring as he wondered how he could become better… How he could become enough.

The child tried asking the same question the next night, just like he had done for so many nights before. Ever since he’d discovered he was a bender along with Noatak, Tullik would always ask to be trained by Yakone, and each time, Yakone would only respond with more hostility, harsh words growing ever more cutting even in the presence of his wife. Noatak urged him to cease his pleadings, but he wouldn’t listen, devoted to becoming a combat waterbender. But he took Yakone’s words to heart and doubled down on practising his healing skills, sneaking off to the library day and night to seek improvement, hoping that eventually, his father would change his mind.

As time went on, Noatak’s waterbending grew stronger, so did the child’s healing. He spent most, if not all, of his waking hours learning textbook techniques (despite understanding almost none of the words and relying on the diagrams instead) and committing the Hoy Chi body chart to memory. Still, it frustrated him to only learn theoretical knowledge.

He decided to take things further.

He cut himself with the knives hanging in their kitchen, red stripes blooming where unmarked skin should have been, the small lines littering his arms closing up and splitting repeatedly. He jumped off tall snow hills when no one looked, flushed marks burgeoning across his tiny body as he tumbled down onto the hard ground where he had cleared the snow off from earlier, the colour of his ribs often pivoting between a dark purple and its normal tanned brown. He gritted his teeth each time he fell, each time he sliced his skin open; but quitting was never an option.

Before long, he moved past the stage of being able to heal minor wounds, ridding mere inconveniences like slight cuts, bruises, and scrapes with a single gesture of his hand. He could finally keep up with the other healers in the village of his age, and he challenged himself to do more and heal larger lacerations like those often found on the wild arctic hippos which had escaped from Northern hunters. He excelled past all expectations when he was able to heal the third-degree burn Noatak had sustained from accidentally spilling boiling tentacle soup over his hands.

Noatak had wanted to try cooking without the use of his bending, but the pot slid from the stove as he moved to shift it, and the scalding liquid splashed onto his hands. It burned through his skin almost instantly, exposing the yellow tissue underneath and leaving behind a blackened, charred patch. He let out an anguished howl as blisters formed in the surrounding area and his skin swelled up in an angry red colour. He stumbled back, falling down onto the kitchen ground.

Noatak groaned, writhing and whimpering from the pain, hands outstretched, pleading for help in a strained voice. The child, having heard the commotion, set into action, grabbing fresh snow from the windowsill to wrap around Noatak’s wounds. He hissed when the snow made contact, throwing his head back and kicking his legs out as the pain flared up, but he stilled his body when the child kneeled down beside him and rested a hand on his arm. He melted the snow into water, the blanket of liquid glowing a vibrant blue as he focused his energy into his body, closing his eyes while he pictured the pathways of energy flow, forcing it to coalesce into a concentrated mass under Noatak’s burns.

Their parents came in time to look over the healing process as it happened, Yakone’s eyes especially glued to the raw, damaged tissue of Noatak’s hands. He fidgeted in place, wringing his hands together; their mother looked on between her children, biting her lip. The child did his best, putting in all his energy into healing Noatak’s body layer by layer, pushing the energy flow to reconstruct his nerves and blood vessels before slowly rebuilding his dermis, the cauterised tissue gradually shallowing as light pink skin spread over the wound.

The child’s delicate body swayed a little as he ceased the healing process, the sheet of water falling to the ground as a wave of nausea rose up to his throat.

Both parents rushed to cluster around Noatak, Yakone cradling Noatak’s juvenile body in his large arms as his mother smoothed his hair. “Move your hand. Can you feel it?” Yakone asked, whispering in a mellow voice uncharacteristic of his usual tone.

“Yeah,” Noatak answered weakly, flexing his hand cautiously before bending the water on the ground and evaporating it with ease. A relieved smile broke out on Yakone’s face, and he turned back to look at the child, who had thrown out a hand to his side to prevent himself from collapsing onto the ground.

“Outstanding work, Tullik,” he grunted.

The child blinked. That was the first time he had ever heard a word of his father’s approval.

He offered a weak smile in response. His mother now shifted over to him and gently stroked his head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You’re remarkable, Tullik,” she said, whispering the words into his ears.

“Yeah,” Noatak said, voice breathy. “Thanks, Tullik. I guess I owe you my bending, huh?” A light chuckle escaped from his lips. “Rest up. You deserve it.”

The child glowed from the praise, his own discomfort forgotten in the moment.

Emboldened by this new achievement, he tried to ask again the next night, this time during dinner. He had expected things to go over well, the request perhaps even being met with a smile, yet a similar silence fell around the table as both Noatak and his mother halted their eating, eyes darting from each other to the child to Yakone. Yakone sighed, irritation evident as he raised his voice, “I know you’ve been practising a lot, and you think your bending could be put to better use, but you’re a girl—”

“I’m not!” The child yelled, the sound ripping their way out of his throat, a cry so raw and powerful, reminiscent to that of a polar bear dog’s in volume and an eagle hawk’s in pitch. It was hard to believe it had come from his slight, cherubic stature. Frozen in shock, his family simply looked at him, eyes widening as the meaning of his words dawned on them. Yakone was the first to move; he put his chopsticks down on the table, an unreadable expression settling over his face. Both Noatak and his mother, too, put down their bowls and looked away. A stiff atmosphere filled the air.

“What do you mean, Tullik?” Yakone spoke, his voice steady and composed. The child felt a shiver run across his skin, goosebumps rising along his arms, but he continued, locking eyes with Yakone. He stammered, “I- I’m not a girl. You keep saying I am but… I’m a boy.”

Yakone’s expression remained unchanged. The child couldn’t tell if he was happy, sad, angry, disappointed, surprised—nothing. The child’s mother too remained silent, head bowed down and lips pursed. Noatak, on the other hand, remained the epitome of surprise, head swivelling as he looked between his parents and sibling in a wide-eyed gaze.

The child took a deep breath, closing his eyes before meeting Yakone’s stony gaze again. “And… I hate the name Tullik.” Yakone tilted his head up, and the child flinched back, cringing into his chair. His line of sight fell back down. Yakone steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the table, remaining silent. “I wanna go by Amon…” The child’s voice trailed off, and he glanced at Yakone, shoulders hunched and blinking nervously.

“No,” his voice rang out authoritatively, booming out across the room, but his voice lacked any sign of anger or contempt. The child relaxed slightly, grateful that his father would not turn to violence in this situation, but he kept his guard up, continuing to watch all of Yakone’s actions whilst wrapping his arms around himself. He swung his head to look straight at the child. “No,” he repeated, sighing. “If you feel instead of my daughter, that you are my son,” he grumbled. “I will... accept you. But you may not change your name so drastically. You are still my child, and you will be named as such.”

The child pouted, leaning back into his chair, but said nothing to dispute Yakone’s words.

“How about Tarrlok?” Noatak piped up, having pulled himself together. His voice was jarringly cheerful in the tense atmosphere.

“Tarrlok,” Yakone repeated, swirling the name about in his mouth. “Tarrlok. It’s a good name. It upholds the generational naming tradition in our family…” He clapped, the corners of his lips creeping up into a smile. “Very well, I have no complaints.”

The edges of his eyes crinkled as he reached over. “I’m glad you’re my son, Tarrlok.” He said, ruffling Tarrlok’s hair—the first of the few non-violent touches that he would bestow upon his son.

A small smile cracked upon Tarrlok’s young, fresh face.

## Act II: Indoctrination

“Goodbye honey, we won’t be long now,” Yakone said, leaning in to kiss his wife’s forehead.

“Stay safe now, won’t you?” She said, helping the boys do a last-minute check of their equipment, bending down to wrap an extra scarf around Tarrlok’s neck to ward off the cold. He accepted gracefully, tugging the fabric around his neck and standing up on his tiptoes to kiss his mother’s cheek.

Tonight was the first night he’d be waterbending—real combat waterbending—with his father and brother. His skin tingled with anticipation, but he restrained the urge to jump or skip around his family, instead adopting a cool, poised posture as they walked out into the snow dunes.

They trekked for a mere fifteen minutes into the freezing cold, arriving atop the hill where Yakone so often trained Noatak. Whilst his father and brother set up a fire for light and warmth, Tarrlok stood to the side, fidgeting with his hands. Soon enough, the flames burned bright enough to resist the winter winds, and Yakone turned his attention to his sons. “Noatak, as per usual,” he ordered. Noatak nodded, walking off to the side and gathering some snow into a crystalline sphere of water. The water stilled, ethereal in its appearance, then sharp, fine icicles stuck themselves into the snowy ground in front of him.

Tarrlok’s eyes widened as he watched Noatak. He admired his movements, controlled and fluid, and he turned to look at Yakone, face beaming at the potential prospect of being able to do the same.

“Not yet, Tarrlok. Show me what you know first.” Yakone crossed his arms over his chest.

Tarrlok’s chest deflated, and sulkily, he drew out some snow from the ground, forming it into water tendrils that surrounded his body before merging into a sphere. He pushed and attempted to pull back the mass of water, but his grip slipped and the sphere popped, wetting the snowy floor underneath.

He winced, looking over at Yakone’s reaction.

“Hmm,” Yakone mused, arms crossed. “Passable.” He paused, calling Noatak over. “Teach your brother what I told you the first few days of your training.”

As Noatak trudged towards him, Yakone walked away, towards the fire, back turned to his children. Tarrlok pouted, tilting his head downwards. “Am I bad at waterbending?” 

Noatak lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He smiled, bending down to Tarrlok’s height. “No, silly. You just haven’t gotten the technique down yet. Here, let me show you.”

He stepped back, stretching his hands out in front of him. “Alright, so you wanna do this with your hands…” he murmured, voice warm in the biting cold of the arctic air, and Tarrlok stepped into a similar position, copying the way Noatak held his arms outstretched, shifting his legs into a lunge.

Noatak lifted an arm slowly, keeping his wrists relaxed while streaming the snow from the floor up into his arms, massaging the solid into water in one fluid act. Tarrlok imitated the motion jerkily, his wrists tense and body stiff, and the snow failed to melt into liquid until it laid stationary within his hands.

He frowned. Noatak looked over, catching Tarrlok’s expression from the corner of his eye. He reassured him, still maintaining his pose. “Hey, it’s okay. I didn’t get it on my first try either. Just relax and focus on the flow.”

He began rolling his arms, pushing out the ball of liquid before pulling it back in towards him. Tarrlok took a deep breath, allowing the tension in his body to escape, and followed. The water flowed elegantly, elongating and shortening with his actions as though they were in a dance.

“Good,” Noatak approved, then forming the water into snow as it flowed, freezing it when he pushed and melting it when he pulled.

Tarrlok bit his lip.

“Don’t worry. Just try,” Noatak said, fully focused on his bending.

Tarrlok gulped. He focused on the sphere between his hands, and whilst sections of the water began freezing up, majority of it remained liquid. He redoubled his efforts, blind to the rest of the world as he concentrated solely on the water.

The liquid solidified into snow in one smooth action as he pushed forward.

When he pulled it back, the snow melted back in that same graceful motion.

He grinned and looked over at Noatak, eager to display his progress, but in his excitement, his attention slipped, and so did the control over his water.

The water splashed onto the ground, and he was suddenly keenly aware of how close his father stood beside him. He held his breath.

“Focus!” Yakone’s voice pierced through the silence of the night. He glowered at Tarrlok. “Your brother was never this sloppy. Buckle up, or you’ll go to bed hungry tonight.”

Tears welled up in Tarrlok’s eyes, and he dropped his arms. Noatak paused his motions, eyes matching his father’s dark gaze. “Dad, he’ll get it. Give him more time.”

“Silence!” Yakone snapped. “Don’t talk back to me. Unless you’d like to join him?”

Noatak looked away, gritting his teeth in silence. Yakone turned his attention back to Tarrlok. “And you! Get back in position!” He barked.

Tarrlok held back the warm tears that blurred his vision, doing as his father said.

They continued training deep into the night, only returning home a few hours before daybreak. Both brothers collapsed onto their shared bed, exhausted from the long night of practice.

Tarrlok turned to look at Noatak, yawning. “Is dad always this strict?”

Noatak mumbled affirmatively, eyelids fluttering. Then he bolted up straight, startling Tarrlok as he reached for his bag at the foot of their bed. He pulled out a small object, hiding it in his hands.

Interest piqued, Tarrlok too sat up. “Here,” Noatak said, handing him a stuffed otter penguin plushie, the toy about the same size as his palms. “I got this from the tailor the other day. Keep it. If dad goes too hard on you and I’m not around… at least you have him.”

Tarrlok giggled, reaching over to squeeze the adorable toy, thanking his brother while also wrapping him in a hug. They talked for a while longer, whispering and giggling to avoid disturbing their parents, but the fatigue of the night soon caught up to them, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The next training session was like the first—Yakone left Noatak to teach Tarrlok the basics, admonishing him whenever he took a little too long to pick up a skill. Eventually, though, as Tarrlok improved, Yakone began coaching them: He taught them advanced skills and directed them to spar at the end of each session. He taught them to be ruthless in battle, to hit hard and fast even against each other. He taught them how to weaponise their fears and to detach from their emotions. He taught them power.

They would often return battered and bruised, but they enjoyed it—their wounds were temporary anyway, to be healed by Tarrlok the next day. They trained for weeks, weeks stretching into months and months into years. It became a ritual.

They expected the same that night, but Yakone had taken them out on a hunting trip instead. He led them towards the rocky cliffs far away from the village, and as night fell, the snow began falling in plumes. They followed behind their father, lugging their sled, heavy with hunted prey, harsh wind blowing against their faces.

They set up camp in an alcove right beneath the mountains. The warm light from the campfire illuminated their father’s face as he sat his sons down for a talk; their waterbending training was advancing well, and it was time they learnt about their roots.

As Yakone told the story of his past, chills ran up Tarrlok’s spine. His father… He felt sick. His father was a criminal, a delinquent, a—a murderer. And he did it all through bloodbending. The art of compelling someone against their will so they would follow yours—Tarrlok resisted the urge to blanch as Yakone talked, but Noatak listened closely in a wide-eyed gaze.

“Bloodbending is in our lineage. You two have this power deep inside of you, and I will teach you to master it.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “I used to be a bloodbender too, of the highest degree. But the Avatar stole my bending from me.” He growled. “And that’s why I brought you out here today. To learn your destiny. You will become the greatest bloodbenders in history, and when the time comes, you will reclaim Republic City and destroy the Avatar. You will avenge me. That is your purpose in life.”

Tarrlok’s stomach churned.

He didn’t get much sleep that night.

They commenced their bloodbending training the next day, the full moon perfectly timed to bring their waterbending abilities to their peak. They started off small, looking for wild arctic hen in the snowy forests to practise on, and Noatak took to it instantly. He controlled a stray hen with ease, moving it around as though he held an invisible leash on its neck.

When he released his hold on the hen, it squawked, shrieks piercing through the quiet of the night as it flew back up to roost in their trees.

Tarrlok… didn’t have the same luck. Out of obedience, he heeded his father’s instruction, but he hesitated. His father’s glare quickly dissolved the rest of his doubt, and he took a deep breath, envisioning himself pulling the wild hen back down, but the hen broke free of his grasp within seconds.

He looked to his father, and Yakone looked back at him with an icy stare.

Noatak grew more and more powerful as their bloodbending training went on, moving on to larger targets like wolves and yaks, and later on, even herds of animals. Tarrlok struggled to keep up, and soon, he realised his father would focus more on Noatak during their training, often granting him tips and advice while barely even throwing Tarrlok a glance.

As the years passed, Noatak… changed. He had always been a powerful waterbender, but now, he could bloodbend any form of animal life at the drop of a hat—even without the use of his arms. Yet, despite his exponential growth in power and strength, when Tarrlok looked at him, his eyes no longer carried the same warmth he did in his youth. Instead, they appeared glazed over, lifeless and distant, his passion for bending having long been extinguished by the pressures of his father. He talked less during family meals (though his silence was easily masked by Yakone’s own newfound chattiness) and he would turn his back to Tarrlok whenever he got in bed.

Tonight was no different.

As he looked over at his brother’s sleeping form, he wondered, if only he had been good enough… If only he hadn’t plateaued… If only he could be the son Yakone wanted… If only… He fought the warmth spreading across his face, tilting his head instead to look at the otter penguin plushie Noatak had gifted him all those years ago, sat on his bookshelf and slightly battered from wear and tear, and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

When he awoke the next morning, a sinking feeling developed in the pit of his stomach. It was that time of the month again. He shut his eyes, nausea rising in his chest. Of all days… He swallowed, getting out of bed cautiously. He winced at the bloodstains on the sheets, carefully drawing out some water from the air to wash the stain away.

Previously, it was easy to pretend he had been born in a male body, but as puberty hit, his body changed, shifting further away from his ideal expectations. Another area which he was lacking in.

He rolled his eyes, berating himself for forgetting to check the date, and walked behind a tapestry. He stripped off his clothes, washing out the stains on the cloth, and stood still, concentrating on the blood within him. He drew out as much fluid from his abdomen as he could, grimacing at the sight before tossing it into their waste pot and getting dressed. He would throw that out later that night before their “hunting trip”.

They prepared the usual equipment and headed over to their usual practice grounds. But today, instead of bloodbending animals, Yakone had commanded them to bloodbend… each other. He stood to one side, overlooking the two of them before nodding to Noatak.

Noatak took a deep breath, focusing his eyes on Tarrlok. His muscles tensed immediately, pain shooting up his limbs as his body contorted into unnatural forms. He strained to break free of Noatak’s bloodbending grip, but it was futile; he was sent crashing down onto his knees, the snowy tundra barely a cushion to his fall. He struggled further as the waves of agony swept over him, fear rising in his chest when he realised how truly powerless he was. He redoubled his efforts to force his body to work to his will, and relief flooded into his heart when the pain alleviated for a moment, yet all hope of escape was crushed when Noatak reinforced his grip on him, forcing his muscles to contract to his will.

Tarrlok’s yells of pain went ignored by both his father and brother, and as he remained in that position, he couldn’t help but feel tears well up in his eyes. Only when his father gave his approval did Noatak release him, and he collapsed to the ground, chest heaving and vision blurry. He felt sick, the nausea hitting him in sharp waves as the world spun around him. He lifted a snowy hand to his side to help ease his dizziness.

“Tarrlok, your turn,” Yakone commanded.

He lifted his head up to look at his father, eyes filled with betrayal and disgust.

“What are you waiting for? Bloodbend him,” Yakone snarled, eyes narrowed. “Or are you not man enough to do it?”

“No! That felt awful!” The nausea returned, settling in his chest. He swallowed, pushing the sensation out of his mind, continuing. “How could you do that to anyone?” He shook his head, standing up. The tears in his eyes threatened to spill over as he declared, “I never want to bloodbend again!”

Yakone’s face twisted into the embodiment of rage. He took a step towards Tarrlok, raising a hand. “You’re a disgrace! Wasn’t this what you wanted to learn? You shouldn’t have asked for something you couldn’t handle, you _weakling_!” He stepped nearer towards Tarrlok, hand raised threateningly high, yet Tarrlok remained rooted to the ground.

“Let this be a lesson, so you understand _your body_ just wasn’t made for this,” he sneered, nearly close enough to strike, but all of a sudden, his wrist crumpled and his mouth fell open in a soundless gasp. Noatak stepped in front of Tarrlok, shielding him from his father’s touch. Yakone’s body buckled, arms twitching about uselessly at his sides, body held up straight by Noatak’s bloodbending.

“How… dare you!” Yakone choked out, glaring at Noatak. “Such insolence will not go unp—”

“What are you gonna do about it? You keep telling Tarrlok he’s weak, but he’s not. You are. You say bloodbending is the most powerful art in the world, but it’s not. The avatar is. Your power was stripped as a punishment for your deeds, so you forced it upon us, hoping we would eventually help you attain vengeance. But you’re forgetting something—” He forced Yakone to his knees. “We’re your _sons_. Not your tools for revenge.” Noatak spat, the most passionate he’d been since his childhood.

He turned to look at Tarrlok, maintaining an iron vice on Yakone, “Let’s go. We can run away from him. Forever.”

Tarrlok faltered. “But what about mum? We can’t just leave her behind…”

Noatak narrowed his eyes. “Even after all that, you still want to hold on. I can’t protect you forever, you know?” He exhaled sharply, turning his head back to look at Yakone. “Maybe he was right about you,” Noatak said, voice still. “You are weak.” His words were spoken as a whisper, barely audible in the snowy winds that whipped around them, yet his words roared in Tarrlok’s ears with the noise of a thousand steamships. Tarrlok swallowed, dropping his line of sight to the ground.

Noatak flung Yakone’s body to the side, smirking when it thudded against the snow-capped rocks, and he shoved past Tarrlok to run straight into the icy landscape.

“No!” Tarrlok screamed, running after his brother, but a wave of Noatak’s hand and the snow on the ground exploded upwards, impeding his vision. He blinked, shielding his eyes with his arm as he whirled around, surveying the landscape for Noatak, but new snowfall had already covered his footprints.

He was gone.

## Act III: Solitude

Yakone hobbled over to Tarrlok right after Noatak left, ordering him to get his brother back. Tarrlok naturally agreed, but as he looked around his surroundings, eyes darting across the stark landscape, breathing heavily, he realised he didn’t know what to do. He swallowed, hands trembling, frozen in place, and his gaze grazed over his feet.

An idea came to him. He shifted his legs into a wide stance, grounding himself to the snowy earth. He raised his arms, and the snow on the ground followed, floating upwards to expose bare ground. Then he shuddered, pushing his arms out and extending his reach over the hills and towards the forest in a shock wave that caused the snow to shoot up into a thick blanket held high over his head.

But all they could see was empty ground.

Yakone turned to Tarrlok, scowling. “You’re useless!”

Tarrlok, face red and arms straining from bending all snow that lay between him and the horizon, grit his teeth in response. “I’m… trying my best!”

“Well, your best isn’t good enough! Noatak could—” Yakone shouted, his words catching in his throat. Though unsaid, the same thought flitted across their minds. Yakone tore his glare away from Tarrlok and brought a hand to his face; Tarrlok sustained his bending. Neither of them said a word. Perhaps they were both afraid that if they’d said it aloud that it’d become true.

Then Tarrlok’s legs collapsed, and the snow around them came tumbling down.

They spent the rest of the night searching for Noatak, calling his name out until they were both hoarse, but to no avail. They decided to turn back after three days of unsuccessfully locating him—the worst of the storm had passed, and they both feared the worst. As the two of them slogged back towards the village, a heavy tension hung in the air. Neither of them knew how to break the news when they returned; eventually, Yakone said that Noatak had gotten separated from them in the storm and they couldn’t find him afterwards—not a complete lie.

His brother’s disappearance affected both his parents deeply. While they would still gather for family meals, nothing else remained the same. Noatak was often the source of their warmth and laughter despite not saying all that much himself, and without him, all that was left was a hollow husk of the past. The food lay abandoned on the table as his parents sat, staring at the space where Noatak used to sit, utensils untouched. The tension was thick enough to suffocate.

Tarrlok shifted in his seat and picked up his chopsticks, reaching out to pluck some meat from the grilled fish dish in the centre of the table.

Yakone stood up, knocking his stool over. Tarrlok flinched, but Yakone simply left the room. He shifted his eyes to his mother, who continued to stare into space.

Tarrlok began to eat.

A month went by before Tarrlok asked Yakone if he was going to train him again.

“What's the point, Tarrlok? Noatak’s gone.” Yakone slurred his words, lying supine on his bed, a bottle of Earth Kingdom liquor grasped in his hand. Tarrlok looked over at the foot of the bed where two other empty bottles lay.

He clenched his fists, voice taking on an edge. “So what? Just because he’s not here, you’re gonna give up on me?”

Yakone looked at Tarrlok. “You’ll never achieve his potential.”

He took a swig from the bottle and Tarrlok turned away, seething.

He revisited the library, the same old icy building he had been to numerous times in his youth. As he stood before the humble institution, he sucked in a breath, holding it in for a moment before he choked out a laugh, tears in his eyes.

He’d come full circle.

Over the next few months, his parents remained detached, disconnected from the rest of the world. His mother would no longer sew or cook, often going out into the snow dunes in a delusion that maybe Noatak would pop out of the snow and tell her it was just one big prank. His father continued to drink, only ever leaving the house to source more alcohol, his violent persona replaced by a void of a man.

Silence crept into their home, settling into the cracks in the walls and suffocating the air with forbidden words that would only refresh the pain of that night. _Noatak_ was the only thing on their minds, yet none of them spoke. Family dinners were no longer a thing; Tarrlok wound up often cooking for himself, and worried for his mother’s health, he attempted to feed her. She would take a few bites now and then, but never once did she glance at him, always staring out the window as if she was still waiting for Noatak’s return.

Despite all that, Tarrlok tried his best to continue his training. The library contained multitudes of waterbending scrolls, all of which Tarrlok memorised and practised every day at night, out in the wild. He could no longer stand to be in the house now, the previous scent of fresh air now tainted with the stench of alcohol and grime. He’d leave the house in the depths of the night, running to the woods in the search of packs of wolves and yaks, provoking them so they would attack him and he could defend himself, only mending his wounds after staggering back home when he inevitably got injured.

It was a cathartic process.

His mother passed away two years later. Two years of grieving, of refusing to eat or drink or even sleep, naturally took its toll on her. She passed in her sleep; a painless death. When he found out, he took her body to the village mortician, who encased her body in ice in preparation for burial. Yakone barely batted an eye.

Tarrlok didn’t cry at the funeral, somehow. And the condolences of all who came, which was everyone, seemed to only make him feel sick. He stood by her grave, stone-faced as he read out his eulogy; he was sad, of course, but he also felt… empty. Like something was eating away at his insides, feeding on his emotions and leaving behind a hollow shell of a man who didn’t quite believe the words spilling from his mouth. Regardless, he pushed the thoughts out of his mind and adopted a mournful smile.

He wished he could leave.

Now that his mother had gone too, his father became even more unhinged. While the death of his mother returned him into a sober state, he would still yell at Tarrlok for seemingly no reason, often delivering hard slaps in addition to his harsh words.

Tarrlok ignored him. He never retaliated, only healing himself after Yakone had gone, laser-focused on his training. But human willpower could only withstand so much—rage and bitterness soon chipped away at his composure. He stayed silent on the outside, but on the inside, he craved to break off all relations with this vile man. He couldn’t believe how naive he was as a child, and he hated how he used to seek his approval even after Yakone made it apparent he would never measure up to either Noatak or even himself. He hated how he drove Noatak away, causing their family to fall into ruin. And he hated that he was the last remaining family he had left on Earth.

What a cruel joke the spirits played on him.

He began looking into the political section of the library, reading up on the history of governance and policy-making in the Northern Water Tribe. Whatever Yakone was, he would be the opposite. He would be _better_. He had to get out of here, this backwater village, and back into Republic City. He would prove that a criminal’s son could be so much more than just that, and wash the stains of Yakone’s sins off the city grounds. He would be Republic City’s saviour.

Tarrlok sat by the kitchen, reading a textbook when Yakone entered, slamming the door behind him. Tarrlok flipped to the next page.

Yakone shambled about in the main living area of the house before slamming his newly purchased bottle of liquor down onto a table. Tarrlok exhaled, tensing up even as he continued reading.

Yakone’s voice drifted into his ears not long after. “You know, Tarrlok. I never expected anything from you. You were born a girl, useless to my cause.”

Tarrlok bristled at the comment but remained stationary.

“But then you told me you were a boy. Rejoice! I named you. I made you. I put my _heart_ into you. And just look at you now. A disappointment. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

“You didn’t name me. Noatak did.” Tarrlok replied, muscles twitching as he resisted the intense urge to reach out a hand and slap his father’s repulsive face with a watery glove.

“And he’s gone!” Yakone roared. He threw his bottle, and the glass crashed into the wall slightly to the left of Tarrlok’s head. “And it’s your fault! If only you hadn’t been so _weak_ —”

“Me?!” Tarrlok yelled back, infuriated. As Yakone searched for something else to throw at him, he snapped his textbook shut with a loud thump. “You didn’t put a _damned_ drop of effort into me, you don’t get to be disappointed!” He paused, breathing heavily. Yakone marched over, hand poised to strike, but Tarrlok pushed him back, and he fell. “No, Yakone! It’s over. I’m leaving this forsaken place. I’m leaving you, just like how _Noatak_ left you! It’s time you deal with the consequences of your actions instead of pushing all the blame onto me, _weakling_.”

He flung the door open behind him as he walked out, arms outstretched to manipulate the snow into propelling him to the other side of the village. He should have done this long ago, but he lingered around for his mother. Now that she was out of the picture… He had no reason left to stay.

He spied an empty area right by the healer’s hut. Funny how even after he decided to uproot and move on that he ended up right back where he began. No matter: he began constructing his own hut out of packed snow; an igloo, if you will. It would stick out a little, surrounded by large tents made from animal hide and buildings made with icy walls… But this was a temporary dwelling anyway—once he had the chance to put even more distance between him and Yakone… He exhaled, releasing the tension in his shoulders. This would do for now.

He dropped his hands to the side after condensing the top layer of snow into ice to allow light into the house, and he entered the white dome. As he looked at the dim, empty interior of his new house, he cursed at himself. He’d forgotten to take any of his belongings. He sighed, raising a snowy platform in the back of the hut, and collapsing down onto it. He hoped Yakone would be intoxicated enough to not throw out his things before he went and got them back.

Luckily for him, Yakone was out when he returned to his old residence the next day. He grabbed his bag, stuffing the mere few possessions—his books and clothes—into the leather sack. He was about to leave when something caught the corner of his eye, and he faltered.

The otter-penguin plushie Noatak had given him so many years ago.

He swallowed, blinking back the hot tears rising in his eyes. He reached over and grabbed it in his hand, running his thumb over the plushie’s face.

Then he heard the front door open, and he quickly made his escape through the window.

He continued his studies in the next few months, and soon he made it onto the village council. Despite being the youngest member on it, he would often offer an alternative viewpoint to things that the village elders would never have considered, and they would acquiesce to his demands. He was young, but he was making a name for himself. It was only expected he found himself on a Water Tribe council seat in the Northern Water Tribe City in the next six months.

That was just the beginning of his time; as meeting after meeting passed, he gained a stronger footing in the council. He made friends in high places through slick words and glib phrases that rolled off his tongue in smooth currents, all of which allowed him to pass fresh mandates and laws that the people found most beneficial. He naturally ranked first in popularity polls, his rousing speeches helping him attain a record high 97.6% approval rate from the public, and he basked in their praise, glad that he held the responsibility for doing so much _good_.

It was unsurprising that he was soon referred to join the United Republic Council in Republic City by the Tribal Chief. He made a goodbye speech thanking everyone in the Council who had offered him a chance despite his youth, and the public for their enthusiastic support for most, if not all of his actions—and then came the party.

The rest of the day passed by in an intoxicated blur, and as Tarrlok stumbled into his bedroom, the one he had traded most of his income for, within the frozen walls of the Royal Palace, he inadvertently caught sight of the otter-penguin plushie sitting on a shelf on the opposite wall, right by his books.

He fumbled around in the room before finally making his way to his bed; he fell flat on its cushy covers face-down. He rolled onto his side, smiling.

“If only you could see me now…” He mumbled, and the fog overtook his brain.

## Act IV: Dualism

Tarrlok stepped onto the port, breathing in the smog-filled air, face breaking out into the most genuine smile he’d had in years. Finally, he was in Republic City. Finally, he was free of—

“Hey, watch where you’re going, girlie!”

Tarrlok jumped out of the way as a metalbender unloaded a giant iron cart of fresh fruit onto the ground where he had just stood on. He apologised, swallowing the distaste on his tongue, then hurried on into the city, suitcase in hand.

Today was the new start of his life.

The first lesson he learnt: In Republic City, rent was expensive. Much, much more costly than what he had expected. He was lucky to even get three meals with the amount of money he brought.

The second lesson he learnt: He could no longer offer services in exchange for goods, unlike back in the Water Tribe. Everything was about _money_.

And finally, he realised no one cared if he was here to be a part of the United Republic Council, if they even believed him in the first place.

Time whittled away as Tarrlok wandered about the city looking for a temporary abode, facing rejection after rejection, and nightfall soon arrived. He let out a groan, having not found a suitable headquarters to home himself. In the end, he collapsed onto the cardboard in the alleyways by the City Hall. At least transportation wouldn't be an issue tomorrow.

The first day he officially joined the Council as the Northern Water Tribe Representative, he realised that unlike the Water Tribe Elders, the people on the Council took his inputs much, much less seriously. After all, he _was_ the youngest person on the council by a good twenty years. They would often talk over him, forcing him out of the conversation and shooting down his ideas before he even had the chance to explain it to them. If he wanted his plans heard, he’d have to find another way.

He carried his bags with him after the meeting adjourned, still without board, and roamed around the city. As he wandered around the city, the previously novel scent of asphalt fumes assaulted his nose, and puddles of oil-slicked water threatened to splash up onto him with each passing car. The brash conversations of the passersby in the city soon blended together into white noise—the perfect backdrop for his thoughts to roam free—and he began wondering.

Was he… really going to be able to make a difference here? Would he be able to right the wrongs of Republic City? Everyone seemed so callous here, so apathetic. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

When he shook himself out of his thoughts, he found himself having stopped in front of an establishment. A large, elegant _establishment_.

He swung around, ready to leave when a honeyed voice called out for him to stay. He paused, slowly turning back around.

A woman leaned over a second-storey balcony, cigarette in hand, glaring red jacket draped overtop of a black slip dress. She wore no stockings underneath, feet bare on the wooden platform as she looked straight at Tarrlok. She took a drag from her cigarette, puffing out the smoke in perfect circles. “Now what’s a sweetheart like you doing in a place like this?”

Tarrlok lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, attempting to lower his voice further than he usually did. “Uhh… coincidence?”

The woman jumped over the balcony, landing gracefully onto the ground in front of him. He stood, rooted to the ground as she grabbed his chin, turning his head left and right.

“What are you doing?” He asked, arms stretching out in front of him to push the woman away. She let him go, stepping away with her arms crossed.

“I know destitution when I see it. You need a job, and a place to stay, don’t you?”

“Actually, I’m part of the—”

She waved a hand in his direction. “Yes, yes, I heard about the new Northern Water Tribe Council Member on the news. But taxes aren’t to be filed for another two weeks, and you need money _now_.” She tilted her head at him, taking another puff from her cigarette. She leaned in, blowing the smoke right into Tarrlok’s face. He coughed. “You’ve got a pretty face… Not a bad figure... Make use of it.”

She turned around and headed back to the establishment, slipping under a conspicuous red curtain as she entered.

Tarrlok hesitated.

Then he followed in after her.

That night, he tossed and turned about on his new bed, its silky sheets prickling against his skin. He stretched his hands to search for perhaps a slightly more comfortable position when his fingers brushed up against the bedside table, tracing over plastic wrappers and silicone items before making contact with cloth. He paused, then clasped his fingers over the otter-penguin plushie.

He clutched the plushie to his chest, the midpoint of his breastbone where it was completely flat. A wetness filled his eyes as he pictured Noatak’s young face, wondering what his brother would say if he was here.

Then he shut his eyes, throwing the plushie across the room, turning over to sleep, bending the water out of his eyes and evaporating it into the air. He had to do what needed to be done.

He approached each of the other Council Representatives after the conclusion of every meeting, starting off with the Southern Water Tribe Representative. He knew their Tribes shared turbulent relations, but hopefully the woman would listen to his idea.

She did not. Dejected, Tarrlok turned away, but she spoke again, enrapturing his attention. “I’d be open to considering it if you offered… _something_ ,” she suggested, smiling so widely her eyes narrowed into a line. He looked at her confusedly.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” she said, draping a hand around his shoulder. “I heard you’ve got _quite_ the skill set, don’t you?” She tilted his chin up with a finger.

He swallowed, then got down onto his knees.

He approached the Fire Nation Representative last (including Tenzin, who had made it _extremely_ clear he wasn’t interested and disapproved of Tarrlok’s ploys), stopping him in his tracks just outside of City Hall, and the Representative granted him some time to pitch his idea. He stroked his chin when Tarrlok was done speaking, looking to him with a twinkle in his eye, like he knew the punchline to a joke that Tarrlok didn’t. “And what do I get out of this?” He asked.

Tarrlok smiled, teeth dazzlingly white against his tan skin. “Why, I have my… services.”

The next meeting they held, his idea went through. He left the Council Room once the meeting was adjourned (like Tenzin did), ready to go out and celebrate his success, but he backtracked when he realised he’d left his waterskin behind. He was about to enter the wide mahogany doors of the room, when he heard the other Council members mention his name.

For reasons even he didn’t know, he decided to hide behind the door and listen in.

He almost wished he hadn’t.

A sniggering, shrill voice penetrated the air, “Why, that Tarrlok would do _anything_ just for any scrap of power, huh?” Uproarious laughter filled the room, and mentions of ‘harlot’ and ‘shameless’ threw themselves about the room, floating their way over into his ears. His hand trembled as he considered pushing the door open, cheeks dyed red and cold sweat forming on his skin.

When they left the room, Tarrlok was nowhere to be seen, having already returned to the establishment long before they finished their conversation, unease settling deep in his stomach and nausea rising up his throat.

A whisper drifted over from the side of the building right before he entered, and he turned his head to look for the source. A stout man appeared from behind the wall, dressed in muted red and grey attire, and approached him. He eyed the man warily, forcing the nausea down, then exhaled.

“Do you require my services, sir?”

The man replied with a cheeky smile on his face. “I think the question is whether _you_ require my services! I’ve been watching you from outside recently, and I know you have certain _desires_ that can’t be satisfied here.”

Tarrlok snorted, uncapping the waterskin attached to the side of his belt with a flick of his finger and drawing out the water to form a thin whip. He wouldn’t normally try this with customers, but then again, he _was_ off-hours.

The man panicked, throwing out his hands and backing away. “W-w-wait! That’s not what I meant!”

Tarrlok raised an eyebrow, water hovering mid-air.

The man hastened to explain himself, inching closer to Tarrlok as he spoke. “I’m Dr Daifu. I’ve seen the way you carry yourself. I know the ailments that plague you. And I can help.” He raised his eyes to Tarrlok’s. “I can give you what you need to be complete.” He clapped his hands together, plastering that sickening smile back onto his face, exposing well-maintained pearly whites.

“And what do you stand to gain?” Tarrlok asked, water whip still raised threateningly behind him.

“Consider it practice,” the man responded, beaming at Tarrlok.

Tarrlok ran a hand over the dark red lines running across his chest, eyes trained on the reflective surface of the mirror. His hand drifted downwards, grazing across the new foreign attachment on his pelvis, running a finger up against the junction where skin met skin, stitched together by Dr Daifu’s expert hands. The multiple surgeries he had gone through, and the daily ingestion of tablets composed of strange chemicals, had finally coalesced into this. He rested a palm on the surface of the mirror, a faint smile breaking out on his face.

He could leave his past behind.

He tendered his resignation from the establishment the next morning, and set out to rent his own place.

As the years went on, the older Representatives on the Council retired. Their successors were not much younger, _but_ they were much more senile. They had all swooned over him in their first meeting; only Tenzin continued to oppose his policies. It was a fruitless effort, of course, seeing as the rest of the Council were wrapped around his finger, typically agreeing with him like mindless drones though they’d occasionally throw out pointless objections that he instantly resolved.

He was, indeed, turning into Republic City’s saviour.

That was, until he saw the news portraying a new detritus that would bring Republic City down to its knees—’Amon’. He mused over this new criminal figure, plotting out ideas in his head, then he picked up the handset of his office telephone. A meeting was necessary— for formalities’ sake.

Needless to say, Tenzin didn’t quite agree with his idea of setting up a taskforce to fight Amon, but no matter; the rest of the Council voted in favour of him. Now all he needed was the Avatar, and he knew exactly where to find her.

“Tarrlok, this is my home!” Tenzin protested when he entered their dining room, but some smooth-talking was all it took before he gave in. He sat down beside the Avatar—and one of Tenzin’s children, who flitted around him, sniffing at his clothes. She asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you have three ponytails? And how come you smell like a lady? You’re weird.”

Panic briefly seized his heart. He froze, looking at the child. Static noise filled his head, ideas of “not being man enough” and other similar notions intruded upon his thoughts; shame and disgrace flooded his mind. His mouth formed words of its own accord. Luckily, he snapped back into the moment just in time to find the right vocabulary to complete his sentence, ignoring the numb sensation gnawing at his flat chest.

Of course he couldn’t escape.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, mouth dry, and relocated the thoughts in his mind before that child had disrupted him.

After a moment, he turned to the Avatar. “So, Avatar Korra! I’ve read about you in the papers. Infiltrating Amon’s rally, now _that_ takes some initiative! I say, Republic City is much better off now that you’re here.” He didn’t get far with his flattery before Tenzin interrupted him. So he cut to the chase, informing her about his taskforce and requesting her for help.

What he didn’t expect was for the Avatar to reject him. He opened his mouth to push further, but Tenzin stopped him. “Korra has given her answer, and I think you’ve overstayed your welcome,” he said, glaring at Tarrlok.

Very well. If he couldn’t get the Avatar’s help, then he would just do it himself. As he walked out of the Air Temple, the child yelled out after him. “Bye bye, ponytail man!”

He grimaced.

The taskforce ended up being a success even without the Avatar—they infiltrated multiple underground Chi-blocker training camps in one night, incapacitating and arresting all that were involved without so much as a hitch. The only thing that could have made it perfect would be if Amon had been there too. A shame, really.

Lights flashed and cheers resounded from the crowd as Tarrlok stood up to the podium to give his speech. He flashed his signature charismatic smile at them, raising his arms to silence the journalists.

_Somewhere else in a small apartment on the edges of Republic City..._

The television noise blared out, deafeningly loud in the small, otherwise silent room. Noatak sat on the couch, leaning forward till his elbows rested on his knees. He lifted his mask to his face, narrowing his eyes through the slits as Tarrlok stepped up to the podium to give yet another speech.

“Look at you now, brother…” He said, voice low and guttural.

He walked over to the telephone resting on his dining table. It was time to make a call.

## Act V: Aigre-doux

Tarrlok headed to his office as per any other day, humming to himself in the darkness of the corridors in the City Hall when a sudden sharp pain jabbed at his neck, and the world went dark.

When he awoke, he found himself in a dimly lit room—behind bars. He sat up groggily, groaning at the throbbing pain emanating from his neck. He lifted an arm to rub it, ignoring the deep-set soreness in his limbs, and bent some vapour out of the air to massage the ache away.

“Amon. Does that name ring any bells for you?”

Tarrlok’s head swirled as he looked up at the imposing figure standing above him, separated by the iron bars of the cell. How did he get in? Was he always there, just watching him and waiting for him to wake up?

He scowled, pouncing forwards and slamming his hands against the bars. “You lunatic! Do you really think you’ll get away with kidnapping me?”

Amon spoke. “Now, now, Councilman Tarrlok, is that how you should address me?”

Tarrlok steeled himself, glowering up at Amon as he released his hold on the cell bars.

Amon squatted down in front of Tarrlok. “Don’t you remember me?”

Tarrlok swallowed, pulling away from the bars and racking his memory. Amon… When he first heard the name, he did think it familiar, but he never understood why. Had they… Had they met before?

“Who are you?” He asked, voice hoarse and throat dry.

Amon lifted his mask, and Tarrlok’s eyes widened in recognition. He reflexively pushed himself backwards, till his back was flush with the wall. He looked on as the man simply turned away, pacing in the small room just out of reach of the bars.

“Noatak,” Tarrlok spluttered, thoughts whirling. He looked up at his brother. “I thought you died in that storm!”

Noatak chuckled. “You did well that night trying to find me, brother. But you forgot my waterbending skills exceeded yours.”

“I-” Tarrlok’s head spun, a strange concoction of emotions rising into his chest. He shook his head, breaking out into a smile, excitement seeping into his voice. “I- I’m so glad you’re alive, Noatak!”

Then the realisation hit. The man standing in front of him was his long-presumed dead brother, but he was also a domestic terrorist. He was the criminal threatening the public safety of Republic City, the exact same criminal who he had worked so hard to get rid of over these past few months. He was the cold-blooded killer who stripped people of their bending powers in the name of “equalising” them. Tarrlok’s smile faltered.

Noatak spun around and advanced towards Tarrlok, who looked up at him with wary eyes, a pit of nausea settling deep within his chest.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve paid attention to you over the years too.” He took a step closer, spreading his arms out. “I’ve seen you blackmail and manipulate your opponents into switching to your side. I’ve seen you replace your morals with avarice and thoughts of grandiose. Have you completely forgotten why you started off on this path in the first place?” He scoffed.

While Noatak gave his monologue, Tarrlok carefully hid his hand behind his back, drawing out the vapour from the surrounding air, preparing to strike. He flung icy projectiles at Noatak’s back right as he turned around, and the shots hit their mark, digging deep into Noatak’s flesh as he let out a strangled yelp.

But he just tensed his back, melting down the ice into water which glowed an ephemeral blue.

Tarrlok knit his brows together. “I see you’ve learnt some new skills since our teenage years.”

Noatak laughed, nodding in agreement. He spun around, sending larger icicles shooting back at Tarrlok. He jumped out of the way, but a stray projectile made its mark and pierced through his sleeve, pinning him to the wall.

He quickly melted the ice back down and jumped to his feet.

Noatak shook his head, forming a small ball of water in each hand. “We both know how this ends.”

Tarrlok readied himself, palms facing outwards. “That doesn’t mean I can’t try to stop you.”

Small bursts of water shot towards Tarrlok, but he deflected each jet with his palms, redirecting them towards Noatak in the form of thin water blades. Noatak threw his arms out, stopping them mid-air, and the water splashed harmlessly onto the ground.

Tarrlok looked to the side of the room, and seeing a window, he extracted some of the water out from the wooden floors, whirling it towards the windowpane. The glass froze over, but before he could do anything else, Noatak’s water whip lashed out, catching Tarrlok on the wrist and leaving a small gash on his skin.

He hissed, but pulled the whip towards him, using the water to heal himself whilst also providing ammo. But instead of Noatak, he sent the water flying towards the window, heating it up just before it made contact, and the glass shattered.

He swung his arms back around, and a stream of packed snow tore through the wall, ripping the windowsill apart. Noatak found his feet buried deep in the snow, which then condensed into ice, forbidding him from moving about. He tugged at his newfound bonds with irritation.

Then a snowball hit Tarrlok’s chest with a loud thud and he stumbled, backing up and leaning against the cell’s wall, a hand to his chest. He wheezed, and Noatak took the chance to free himself whilst also hurtling thin sheets of water back at Tarrlok.

Tarrlok raised his palms up, and the water slammed into the wooden panels behind him, slicing through the sturdy oak and allowing biting chill air into the room. Noatak prepared to fling even more projectiles at Tarrlok, but abruptly dropped to the ground, screaming.

Tarrlok had sent a gust of boiling water vapour at his brother. A light pink colour spread across the half of Noatak’s face which had been hit, blisters blooming on his cheek. His right eye snapped itself shut as his hand trembled and hovered over his burns.

He began whimpering, soft sounds unlike the one he had just made, and Tarrlok rushed to the front of his cell. Without thinking, he shot his hand out and covered Noatak’s wounds with freshly melted snow. The water glowed, vibrant and pulsing as Tarrlok searched for not-so-obvious injuries, guiding the energy flow to erase the damage he had caused.

He relaxed when he could no longer detect any trauma, lowering his arms and heaving a sigh of relief.

Then he thudded against the back wall of the cell. He tried to push himself back up, but his brother’s bloodbending grip kept him trapped like a cockroach under a thumb. He attempted to bloodbend himself back to normal, focusing intently on the liquid inside him; nevertheless, all he could do was twitch.

Noatak sat up, laughing. “You’ve gotten sloppy, brother. Have you forgotten father’s training? Or maybe you’ve been too busy exerting your power over these non-benders?” He stood up, walking over to unlock the cell and dragging Tarrlok’s crumpled form into the middle of the room.

Tarrlok retched, still attempting to break free from Noatak’s grasp. He strained to tilt his head upwards to meet Noatak’s gaze, eyes wide and pupils contracted. “You’re… You’re a monster,” he whispered, eyesight growing blurry and face growing warm.

“You… Why are you doing this?” He asked, desperation reaching new peaks. He rambled on, “You say bending is corrupted, but you use your own bending to take away the power of others. Even if you win, and everyone is Equalised, you can’t possibly take your own bending away.”

“Then that is a burden I shall bear on my own,” Noatak responded, lifting Tarrlok into the air, body straight and levelling their eyes together.

“Noatak… please, you don’t have to do this,” Tarrlok choked out, writhing uselessly against Noatak’s iron bloodbending grip.

Noatak scowled, his grip on Tarrlok seeming to tighten and squeeze. The pain was near unbearable, unlike anything he’d experienced before; similar to that of twenty-three years ago, yet all the more potent and impossible to break free from. “I’m sorry, Tarrlok. But I’m no longer the Noatak you once knew. I am Amon, reborn. I am the Great Equaliser, and you need to be reminded of your place.”

He exhaled. “It’s time to teach you a lesson, brother.”

He grabbed Tarrlok’s head in his hand and dug his thumb into his forehead. An incredible, nauseating pain shot into him. It radiated throughout his arteries, searing through his blood, and just as quick as it came, it disappeared. But the knowledge he had amalgamated from the many years he had spent studying the flow of Chi in the human body told him his Chi flow had been disrupted. He could feel it—Amon had blocked off his chakras completely.

Tarrlok collapsed onto the ground, heaving and coughing, head bowed over Amon’s feet. He raised a shaking hand and pinched his fingers together in an attempt to draw water out of the air, but his skin remained dry to the touch.

He shut his eyes briefly, body trembling. Nausea took root in his stomach, spreading out to his limbs and creeping up his throat. He parted his lips, mouth dry, and blinked back the wetness in his eyes as Amon watched from above in silence.

Then he caught sight of an electrified glove, the exact same ones the Equalists used in their rebellion, laying on the ground just by a few barrels of presumably diesel oil laid out in the corner by the trapdoor leading to his cell. He scoffed at himself internally. It was incredible the things you fail to notice when you have bending.

A plan quickly formulated in his head as Amon put his mask back on. He turned to leave when Tarrlok grabbed at his legs with sudden gusto. “Wait, take me with you,” he begged, clutching Amon’s pant legs like a drowning man would a lifebuoy.

Amon tensed. “And why would I do that?”

“If you leave me here and they find me, I’ll have no choice but to expose you for who you are.” His voice softened. “But you’re my brother. I don’t want to do that.” He shuddered, crawling closer to Amon. “Still, I couldn’t live with myself if I hid that information and just watched you bring Republic City down to its knees.” He took Amon’s hands into his own.

“Don’t make me choose between you and Republic City,” he pleaded.

Amon jerked his hands away, shaking his head. He took a few steps towards the other side of the room, back turned to Tarrlok who scrambled to follow, eyes trained on the Equalist glove.

Amon paused, eyes clouded as he mused over his thoughts, giving Tarrlok just enough time to reach over and stick out a hand to grab the glove. Tarrlok’s eyes flitted between Amon and the glove as he equipped it, then he stood, legs shaky. Amon spoke, unaware of his brother’s manoeuvres. “I thought you’d be stronger after all these years. I should have guessed you didn’t after that lacklustre fight, but it boggles my mind how you still haven’t learnt how to pick—”

He turned around, cutting himself off when he found himself face-to-face with Tarrlok, his hand outstretched to the side, aimed at the steel barrels.

“I’m sorry, brother,” he spoke. A tear slid down his cheek. “But you have to be equalised too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled;  
> Act I: If You Want To Be Loved  
> Act II: Your Shadow Looms Over Me When I Sleep  
> Act III: This Is All I Have Left Of You  
> Act IV: I’ve Climbed To The Top But At What Cost?  
> Act V: The World Has Nothing Left For Me To Take, And I Have Nothing Left To Give


End file.
